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COPYRIGHT. 1917. BY WILLIAM C. JACKS 



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APR 24 1917 

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DEDICATION. 



To the boys and girls who love the west and 


are growing up to be our future citizens in action, 


these lines are cheerfully dedicated. 



The night winds croon to the desert sands, 
The coyote's lonesome wail 
Is heard from the hills of the sasey lands 
And echo in the swail. 

The herd shows dim on the mesa's rim , 

The stars peep out above; 

And I lay me down to sleep and dream, 

Of the West, the land 1 love. 


Jitiroimcium 

Some one has said, “Let me write the songs of 
my country and I care not who makes her laws.” 

More and more as the world progresses, we learn 
that precepts evolved from cold, practical reason 
have not the power to en-noble and perfect that have 
beautiful thoughts, wrought in the emotions of the 
hearts of a people and couched in the language of 
their life history. 

The Sagas of the Norseland, the Minstrelsy of 
Scotland, the Ballads of England and the Folklore 
of our South have wielded an influence in shaping 
the destinies of these lands more than have all the 
laws forced upon them. 

Our West is so new that the “Clouds of Glory” 
trailing from our birth, still light this land of sun¬ 
set in primeval splendor; and in the portrayal of the 
life and character of the rugged sons of the West, 
the author of this little volume, “Buds of Sage¬ 
brush,” has given us a share in that glory. 

He has done much toward establishing a litera¬ 
ture peculiar to the West, a literature that shall 
grow and become distinctive as the years pass away. 

“Though time and eternity last but for a day, 

Or countless years o’er us be hurled.” 

These songs will keep fresh in the memory of 
future generations, the freedom, the bravery, the 
self-sacrifice, the life and love, our heritage, under 
the blue sky where God was among the “Buds of 
Sagebrush,” here in the golden West. 

—Jennie M. Jacks. 



In offering this little volume to the public, 
I hope that it may be a bit of inspiration to 
readers of western history. 

It is not presumed to be a creation of some¬ 
thing new, but rather a review of past scenes 
and events. 

The pioneer, the trapper, the miner, and the 
cowboy are characters of the past, and if in these 
verses we have drawn a picture, colored a scene 
or outlined a landscape that will aid the reader 
in cherishing a greater fondness for the West- 
land, then these humble efforts will not have 
been entirely in vain. 


THE AUTHOR . 


(©ut Jfet 


O, say, have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out in that frontier land; 

And seen the sights one only sees, 

When he eats a plenty, and feels at ease; 

When the breath of sage and scent of pine, 

Make your lungs expand, and you feel so fine 
That you want to fight a grizzly bear? 

Well, that’s the way you feel out there. 

O, say, have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out, where the skies are blue, 

Where the stars all twinkle a ’through the night, 
And the silver bow of the moon, whose light 
Loads your soul with a joy that fills you up, 

Like the nectar of love, that you love to sup; 

And you feel so honest and good and square? 
Well, that’s the way you feel out there. 

O, say have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out neath the setting sun; 

Where its last rays fall in the golden cup, 

And rest ’til the morning brings them up 
Over the crest of the mountain’s peak; 

Then you start again new joys to seek, 

And you see such beauty, so much that’s fair? 
Well, that’s the way you feel out there. 

O, say have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out mid those lofty hills, 

Where the tiny brooks leap and plunge and hide, 




’Til they join their friends in the rivers wide; 
And laugh at the goodness all around, 

The goodness that only out there is found, 

And you feel that goodness, their joy you share? 
Well, that’s the way you feel out there. 

0, say, have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out on the sage brush plains, 

Where business is business, where real men live, 
Where the pay you offer’s the pay you give; 

Let it be in cattle or horse or sheep 
Where your bond is your word and your word 
you’ll keep, 

Well, that’s the way you feel out there. 

0, say have you ever been out in the west, 

Way out from the crowded east? 

Have you left the cities to take a part 
In the freedom that gives you a bigger heart; 

In the land where the fir supplants the palm, 

And the wild creatures all enjoy the calm, 

Where the white syringa’s perfume rare, 

Makes you know that you’re glad to live out there? 



W(\t %'dsi JEtfre 


Yes, I guess Fm going to go, boys, 

It seems I can't quite keep it off— 

This pain in my side—that was my last ride— 
Oh! it hurts me so here when I cough. 

I don’t mind the going so much, boys, 

Just now as a feller would think; 

For it’s—say, can’t you see it’s all up with me? 
Say, Tim, won’t you give me a drink? 

There’s no use in frettin’ a bit, boys, 

You’ve seen lots of others cash in; 

I’ll be better you know so just let me go, 

Let me go through the way I begin. 

Of course, you will miss me a while, boys, 

But there’s plenty more better than me— 

Here’s my coat by the bed, put it under my 
head, 

That will raise me up so I can see. 

Tell the boss, when he comes out to pay, boys, 
He can keep what’s coming to me,— 

Or, if you think it’s fair, you can each have a 
share— 

But it’s only a little you see. 

Do you think I’m croakin, to much, boys? 

It seems there’s so much I could say,— 

And the many a ride of long days side by side 



.411 seem to be better than play. 

But there were some days of hard work, boys, 
in blizzard, stampede and corrals, 

But we’d roll in at night and our hearts w )uld 
be light, 

And we’d cuddle up close to our pals. 

Mind that day on the Catholic gulch, boys, 
And the spotted old pinto I rode? 

’Way he pitched was a wonder, and bellered 
like thunder— 

You bet, he didn’t have to be showed. 

But I guess I won’t wamp any more, boys, 
Nor jig for you down at The Star; 

For I’ve made my last ride and I’ll hike with 
the tide 

That shall carry me over the bar. 


S> 


Christmas on tip Batter 


Out on the range where the cattle fed, 
With a sort of sniffing hum; 

The hills showed white through all the night. 
For winter’s first snow T had come. 

The riders w r ere off to take a rest, 

For their toils w 7 ere on the wane; 

To recuperate, as the saying goes, 

Then go to their work again. 

Tomorrow w r as Christmas, each one felt 
A sort of thrill pass through 
His supple frame, as he thought of home, 
And the things he’d like to do. 

Then they set their heads to celebrate, 

In a w r ay they had not tried; 

And sent a pair of wampooers to make 
The invitation ride. 

Lone Charley, who’d had a few days in school. 
And knew how to frame a scheme, 

Said he’d make a program that’d beat 
Their wildest, fondest dream. 

And hasher, the cook, w r as in it too, 

To lend a hand and take 
A part in the day’s festivities; 

For the sake of old time sake. 



For they sure must have an extra feed, 

Some turkey, and pumpkin pie— 

He’d never seen turkey except on foot, 

But he said, “You bet, I'll try.” 

Christmas came and the time arrived 
For the programme to begin, 

And they all stood round with heads bowed dow 
And never cracked a grin. 

And Charley read, “To all concerned; 

This being Christmas day, 

Since we've set our heads to celebrate 
In a more than usual way; 

Long Tom will be our Santa Claus 
And drive his reindeers six, 

And he may choose the ones he wants 
To help him do the tricks. 

And Pete and Jud from the 0. K. ranch, 

Must get around, you see, 

To help the cook with the pumpkin pies, 

And decorate the tree. 

And the rest of you may clean corral, 

And when you've sheared the bunch. 

You wont need to brag, for then we’ll know 
Just who's the best cow punch. 

So, beat it now, 'til six o'clock, 

Then Santa Claus you’ll see; 

And we'll pick the turkey and eat the pie, 

And clean up the Christmas tree.” 


Such a day it was, how the boys all laughed. 

At the ropin’ and ridin’ too; 

'Til they all agreed they couldn’t agree, 

Who was the best buckaroo. 

The house and the tree were decked with sage, 

For they didn’t have evergreens; 

And when Santa came, ’twas the wildest bunch, 
I bet, that you’ve ever seen. 

Long Pete and Jerry with strings for bits, 

Came leadin’ the other four. 

They were Santa’s reindeer hitched to his sled 
And they dragged him right in on the floor. 

And such a Santa you never saw, 

With whiskers long and white, 

Made from the tail of an old white horse, 

To help in the fun that night. 

Then the presents were taken off the tree, 

And the names were called aloud, 

’Til chaps and spurs and quirts and belts 
Had passed to each of the crowd. 

Then the cook called out that the feed was on. 
And said, “You come in pairs, 

On Christmas night ’tis the proper thing 
For a feller to put on airs.” 

And, put on airs, well I guess they did, 

Ivone Charley led the way, 

But before he’d let them taste a bite, 

He said, “We’ll have to pray.” 


And this is the prayer, Lone Charley prayed, 
“Oh, Jesus, we’re glad tonight, 

To have these presents and every thing, 

Tho they aint a great big sight. 

But we’ve done the best to celebrate 
In the way we thought we should; 

And every feller has tried to do 
The very best he could. 

We haven’t cussed a bit today, 

Because, you know, you see, 

We want to be as good, you know, 

Just as good as we can be. 

And when the; sky pilot comes to town, 

We’re going to all donate, 

So bless this turkey and pumpkin pie, 

And help us to celebrate.” 

From the way those viands disappeared, 

That prayer was surely heard; 

For in half an hour, all you could find, 

Was the bones of that there bird. 

And the day wound up with old time flings, 
Chasse the first and last, 

’Til their mirth was spent and they went to bed, 
And the Christmas time had passed. 




I have hung up my saddle and chaps and quirt, 
My rope and my spurs and gun; 

My old sombrero and blue flannel shirt, 

And my belt, for I guess I’m done. 

Yet, I won’t need to ride any more for awhile, 

And there’s nobody round here that shoots; 

I don’t mind that much, but I don’t like to pile 
These cowhides, my old riding boots. 

They’re only plain leather, not made up for style, 
The tops are well stitched, good and strong; 

And the heels, they were fashioned to last for 
awhile— 

They’re just the right taper and long. 

There’s dents in the vamps that the stirrups have 
made, 

But my spurs wore these holes in the side; 

The ears are torn off, the seams are all frayed, 
And the toes are a little too wide. 

In the races of life, we each reach our goal— 
Yet I hate to discard you, old friend; 

For its sad when I think, that with such a good 
sole 

You should have such a terrible end. 

But we wont let the parting, our memories spoil. 




Of many glad days spent together; 

I’ll just dress you up with a coating of oil, 

And hang you away for old leather. 

And when I come back here, if ever I do, 
ril find you right there with the rest; 

Then I’ll slip off my slippers and slip into you, 
And make my home here in the West- 



I've no permanent habitation 
Anywhere in God’s creation, 

I’m an outcast any place I chance to go; 

I was born without a mother 
Have no father, sister, brother, 

So there are no family ties to break, you 
know. 

Makes no difference where I'm feeding, 

Any place my nose is leading, 

Any where at all, is good enough for me; 

Through the coulee, swail or hollow, 

Where the herd goes, there I'll follow, 

And I'll keep just close enough to them to see. 

No hot iron ever seared me, 

No one claims that he has reared me, 





I’m a maverick so all the bosses say. 

So they ride along and pass me, 

No one ever tries to lass me, 

And upon the range I have the fullest sway. 

I’m a real, professional hobo, 

Any place I like I may go; 

But Hove these sage brush hills by far the best, 
They may take me if they want me, 

Their riatas will not daunt me, 

Let them brand me and I’ll go in with the rest. 

If by some hallucination, 

I should be the provocation, 

That would overtax some honest puncher’s zest; 

Let them drive me off and slay me, 

1 don’t care much where they lay me; 

Any place, just so its’ out here in the West. 


iUlp dtrl of tip dclfrm 



In the dear land of sunset, 

There’s one I adore, 

And for her my heart ever yearns; 

The longer I love her, 

I love her more and more 
And to her my soul ever turns. 


She’s the fairest of creatures 





E’en, Eden of old 
No treasure so rich did possess; 

The fables of east lands 
That tell us of gold 

Are shamed by the gold of each tress. 

In springtime, when blossoms 
That, decking the hills, 

Peep out for a look at the sky; 

They whisper a tale 
In the voice of the rills, 

And boast of the blue of her eye. 

Could the roses of Sharon 
Return with their bloom, 

To adorn that fair valley of fame; 

They would wither and die 
In the depths of their gloom, 

By the blush of her cheeks put to shame. 


She’s a girl of the west land, 

More gorgeously clad 
Than the empress of India’s throne; 

She’s a girl to be proud of, 

Who wouldn’t be glad 

To have such a girl for his own ? 


Let the breath of Syringa, 

Or perfume of sage 
Load the air with a fragrance divine; 

When I wait on the hill, 

With my heart in a rage, 

I know I am waiting for mine. 


Comes a whisper that tells me 
She’S' there at my side,— 

Our steeds swiftly bear us along; 

Through the soft evening hours 
We ride and we ride, 

Our hearts welling up in a song. 

Though life and eternity 
Last but for a day, 

Or countless years o’er us be hurled, 
The girl of the west 
Is the tie that shall stay 

My heart to this dreary old world. 


Hire JUnmcljo’s eath 


The time had come for the roundup, 
And every horse on the range, 

Felt a thrill like pain, pass o’er him; 
A thrill, that was weird and strange. 

They knew by former lessons— 
They had passed through cruel ’deals— 
That the one, that holds out longest, 
Gets most of the quirts and steels. 

So they held a consultation, 

To formulate some plan, 




Where by to worst their bosses; 

To baffle the tricks of man. 

Old Sunfish Moll, a vixen, 

More seasoned than the rest; 

Came out to speak her feelings, 

And tell them what was best. 

She’d tried all sorts of cunning, 

From crag to sliding shale, 

But the boys would' always get her; 

For they’d never quit the trail. 

Then Winnie, she told her story, 

Told what they’d ought to do 
And Midnight tried to tell them, 

Some schemes he thought were new. 

So, first one, then another, 

Until they all had spoke, 

Except Slim Jim, the meek eye,— 

They all thought him a joke. 

But since the rest had spoken, 

They’d let him have a chance; 

So he arched his neck and viewed them, 

With a proud and sweeping glance. 

And thus he spoke:— 

Friends, you have called to me, asking my 
counsel, 

I am too young to give you advice; 

But I have seen you fail oft in your planning;— 


There is no ruse, but what you've tried twice. 

Listen now, to me, and mind what I tell you, 

Mark you, 'twill tax your best nerve to obey; 

Hark, every one, to the words I am speaking. 

Come close, and listen to all that I say. 

Call up the spirits that dwell with your fathers. 

Summon the demons from under the earth, 

Rally the harpies, the dragons, the gorgons; 

All the fierce powers, you've known since your 
birth. 

Fill your wild eyes with the flash of the 
lightning, 

Let hurricanes your red nostrils dilate, 

And when so full, that your skins are all 
tightening, 

Strike boldly out with these allies of hate. 

But, wait 'till you've sighted these pests of the 
prairie, 

Quietly graze 'til they get very near, 

Then, with a snort, that shall rumble like 
thunder; 

Break for the steepest shale slope without fear. 


Let them come closer, and closer, upon you, 
And when you've gained the first steep ledge 
of rock, 

Swing to the right, I’ll go down before them, 
Then hark, how the canyon resounds with the 
shock. 


Thus closed the speech of Slim Jim, the 
broncho, 

For the range riders had sighted the herd; 

And of the scheme that he’d told to his brothers, 
Nought more was thought, when he’d spoke his 
last word. 

When the first day of the roundup was ended, 
And the camp tenders had cleared off the place; 
Mangled and crushed, lay a dozen brave riders, 
And Slim Jim, the broncho, had won the last 
race. 


dim ^larktus’ 



I have read your story of Lasca, 

That girl of the Rio Grande; 

And the valorus deed of her lover 
Is a marvel to understand. 

We know the sad fate of poor Custer, 

But laying all jokes aside; 

They don’t go ahead much of Parkins, 
That night, when he made his hard ride. 

The sun dogs had hung on the sky line, 
’Though the summer was half-way spent; 




And the air seemed to stifle and blind you 
Like a green haze wherever you went. 

As evening drew on a bit nearer 

And the air filled with eddies and whirls. 

Up the road from the ford of the river, 

Came hurrying ,two little girls. 

They had camped by the stream for water. 
Where father who's health was so poor 
Could sit in the shade of the willows 
'Till morn, then they'd go on once more. 

But he had grown worse, and their mother 
Feared he could not last through the night. 
And she wished so much for a doctor; 

They seemed in a most helpless plight. 

Now Parkins had passed this lone schooner. 
That day on his ride up the crick. 

He had seen the sick man and he knew that 
Some help must be had for him quick. 

Twas twenty long miles to the doctor, 

Yet Parkins had measured the trail, 

So oft’ on his good, trusty mustang, 

He’d never a fear that he'd fail. 

So he told them to go tell their mamma, 

And help her as much as they could. 

Then he hurriedly saddled his mustang 
And headed him out on the road. 


He knew every inch of the prairie 


In the trail he could count every crook, 

And he knew that the kind hearted doctor 
Would come out as true as a book. 

But fate ever holds for the wager, 

Though often it costs a man’s life; 

It matters no whit what the price is, 

Let it fall unto sister or wife. 

The town, it was reached, and the doctor 
Said he’d try and get out before morn; 

Then Tim started back for the sand hills, 
With a joy that a good deed was done. - 

Scarce half of the distance was covered, 

And the curtains of night had been drawn; 
When a low, long rumble of thunder 
Told Parkins the storm was sure on. 

He knew where his herd was then grazing, 
And he knew that the wake of the storm 
Would start them to madly stampeding, 
Unless he could hold them in form. 

The thunder boomed louder and faster, 

The lightning leaped forth in great flames; 
And the wind, now aroused into fury, 
Sprang up to share in the games. 

From the hills to his left comes a tremble 
Then a low rumble groans on the air, 

It rises and falls with a cadence ; 

Then swells to a loud beating blare. 


Well he knows what the task is before him—- 
Unless he can check the mad flight 
Of the cattle they’ll keep up their running 
Until far into the night. 

No, they must be turned from the valley, 

He must circle them back toward the hill; 

And he thought of the camp by the willows. 
And the father so pale and ill. 

Then closer he crouched in his saddle, 

And swifter his good mustang flew, 

While near and nearer the rumble 
And roar of the storm ever drew. 

■* 

Then a flash of the lightning told him 
That he was a breast of the herd; 

He caught the deep laborous breathing, 

Yet his mustang flew on like a bird. 

And then through the lightning came gleaming 
That clattering rattle of horns, 

A great sea of spear armed demons; 

A death dealing forest of thorns. 

Can he turn them? The leaders are blinded ; 

He feels their hot breath on his face, 

And his good pistol pours out its volleys 
To help him win out in the race. 

With his quirt he is lashing the leaders, 
’Though naught of his blows will they heed, 
The flashes of lightning half blind him, 

And he feels the short gasps of his steed. 


Next morning the good doctor found him 
By his dead pony, there on the plain; 

One hand still grasping the saddle, 

The other clutched fast in the mane. 


He spoke but a few feeble whispers, 

“Were they safe in the camp by the ford? 
Just tell them I did all I could, Doc”— 

Then his soul went to be with his Lord. 

They made him a grave ’neath the willows, 
Where the soft evening shadows may fall; 
And at night when the last rays are blended 
With the cuckoo’s low, sad, mournful call. 

Where all that he loved could be near him, 
E’en the coyote could mourn for him there; 
And the first early blossoms of springtime 
O’er his grave nod their faces so fair. 


(Ore 'Bamy'r’s JftuI 


’Tis a happy thing in the days of spring 
To climb to some sage brush hill, 

And sit your steed, while the cattle feed, 
And the soft winds croon and trill; 

The winding trail dips in the swail, 




Past the spring where the willows grow, 

And the songs begun, o’er and o’er are sung, 
’Til the whole earth seems to know. 

Oh, I love to lie ’neath the summer’s sky 
Mid the cottonwood’s cool shade, 

Near the river’s brink, where the cattle drink, 
By the ford that the cattle made; 

For the days are long, since the spring is gone, 
And the herd will rest at noon; 

So I’ll take a peep, then fall asleep, 

And nap ’til the rising moon. 

’Tis a pleasure sweet, when the noonday’s heat 
Makes the plains a burning span; 

Just to lie and rest and enjoy the best 
, That Providence gives to man; 

And to know you’ve got your honest lot 
Makes you prouder still, to be 
A takin’ your share of the summer air, 

And boast of its bein’ free. 

Oh, I love the joy of the ranger boy 
When the season’s turning old; 

When the sage leaves fall and the cuckoo’s call 
Says the days are growing cold. 

Oh, then I’ll ride o’er the prairies wide, 

With a jog or sweeping lope. 

Make the round-up play, diff the toils away, 

And keep to the spurs and rope. 


3auc of tl|e Jfarper 


To him that’s traveled the world a bit 
There’s many things common enough, 

He sees the side of life that’s smooth, 

As well as the side that's rough. 

He sees the people, both good and bad, 
Though they all may look the same; 

And he’ll always follow his nature’s bent 
When he wants to win a game. 

John Denton had tried the ranger’s life, 

He had tried some ranching too; 

A year in the hills, with pick and pan, 

Had shown what the miners do. 

So, he said, “I’ll quit and take a hike, 

An see what I can find”; 

But a story he’d heard of the U. S. mail, 
Brought a new thought to his mind. 

So he struck the boss of the overland 
For a job of driving team, 

And he said, “I’ll drive stage, before a month, 
Or I’ll miss my fondest dream . 

But, here the side of life that’s smooth, 
Touched the side of life that’s rough; 

And before a year, John Denton found, 

He’d had stage drivin’ enough. 



It happened somehow, about this way; 

The boss had a gal, named Jane, 

Who wasn’t afraid to rope and ride 
Any critter that roamed the plain. 

And she and John were quite good friends, 

Real tillicums, you’d declare; 

For John was a master of gallantry, 

And Jane was passing fair. 

One day, when John with his coach and six, 
Was headed for Fort La Grande, 

A rumor came that the town was burned, 

And now he must show his hand. 

’Twas Injuns, sure, that had done the work, 
The rumor said, that he knew; 

And John decided pretty quick, 

The thing that was best to do. 

4 

“They’ll camp of course, by the road to feed, 
And gloat over what they’ve found; 

I’d better beat off on the old ranch trail, 
And miss them by goin’ round.” 

Now, this old ranch trail was a trifle rough, 
And the stream that must be crossed, 

Was more than a trifle wide and deep, 

And his outfit might be lost. 

He didnt’ care for the risk a whit, 

He’d taken a chance before; 

So he popped the silk in the leader’s flanks 
And galloped on once more. 


He crossed the prairie and climbed the hill 
Til the river was in sight, 

And he knew, if once on the other side, 

He could make the town alright. 

But he never knew how he gained the ford, 

For an Injun came in sight, 

Upon the left, then twenty more 
Loomed up, upon the right. 

But they didn't get him, he beat them, 

Yes, he beat them fair and square; 

For he out ran’m down to the river 
And crossed it, and Jane was there. 

She had seen the Siwashes hiding, 

And thought she'd just ride down 

To help John cross the river, 

And escort him into town. 

She had never said much about shootin', 

And she'd never need to tell 

How she helped John cross the river, 

But them Siwashes knew too well. 

When she saw he was wounded, she mounted 
The stage coach and finished the drive, 

And held his poor head on her shoulder; 

For he was more dead than alive. 

When she reached town, she went for the doctor, 
Who said John wasn't hurt bad; 

Then she drove the coach down to the stable, 

And handed the lines to her dad. 


John couldn’t go on with the driving, 

So he turned the job over to Jane; 

And he stayed there in town with the doctor 
’Til he was able to go out again. 

Then he bade her goodbye, and went ranching. 
But he’s never forgotten that ride; 

When she beat off the Injuns that evening, 
And rode into town by his side. 




csient iilait 


C" 


Say, you soft-hoofed, way-down easter, 

Have you seen our protege, 

This here thing we call the cowboy of the west ? 
Well’ I’ve caught one of the critters, 

And I’ll let you: take a squint; 

So get your quizzes ready, do your best. 

Well, his mother was a woman, and his father 
was a man, 

Just the commonest of common folks you see; 
And they fed him on potatoes, and some home¬ 
made gravy, too, 

With a rasher now and then throwed in for tea. 

He just sweltered in the sun shine 
And dabbled in the mud, 




And played with tadpoles down along the creek; 
Lost his hat achasin’ hoppers 
For to bait his old pin hook, 

And never cared a hoop 'bout bein’ sick. 

His mother, she just loved him and 
His dad, he liked him too; 

And his teacher, well, he went to school awhile, 
But the strangest of it all is, 

He grew up to be a man— 

Just the sort who’s word makes everybody 
smile. 

He don’t know much of your fashion, 

How to wear an evening suit, 

And a low cut vest and pomps to him are 
strange, 

But he knows the price of mutton 
And of beef, and how to shoot, 

And how to keep his horses on the range. 

He can drive an eight horse freight team 
Where you couldn’t drag the rope 
Of that broncho that he has out in the lead, 

And the way he throws the silk in 
Makes you know he ain’t no mope, 

And your autos do not beat him much for speed. 

Yet this freightin’s not his business, 

He just does such jobs for fun, 

Just to keep on knowin’ how to do them all; 

But you watch his sombrero 
Whirling through the mad stampede, 

When he’s rounding up his cattle in the fall. 


Then, you bet you’ll get your lessons 
In the tricks that he can do, 

With some long horned maverick that he has 
rode; 

And you’ll know when you come back, sir, 
More about a good beef stew— 

If you don’t, well, feller, then you can’t be 
showed. 

Some folks says he takes a schooner 
When he meets the boys in town, 

S’pose he does, there’s lots of other fellers do; 
But you bet he knows his business, 

And he does the things up brown, 

For he’s fair and square and honest through 
and through. 

But he’s only one of many 
Of the men the West has reared, 

He is but the native product of the soil; 

And the gold tipped hills of sunset, 

Stretching ever far away, 

Beckon still unto her hardy sons of toil. 



(lllje ^rcmcfjo 


You ask me whence and how I came, 

And where and how I go; 

You wonder much at the things I do, 

And the host of facts I know. 

I am not new, I am old, I’m old, 

I was old when the world began; 

I planned the course of the sun and moon, 

And the marvelous course of man. 

I set the stars in the sky above, 

And toned with azure blue, 

The vast, broad dome of the firmament 
Long, long e’er the world was new. 

\ 

I rocked the cradles of oceans deep, 

’Til they beat their crests to foam,— 

Then I hurled the winds from the mountain 
peaks, 

And turned them loose to roam. 

T lured the Gods from their homes above, 

The fairies from the dell; 

The harpies I dragged from caverns deep 
And cast them into Hell. 

T planned the streak that the lightning takes, 
I forged his forked tongue; 

I hammered the thunder from the clouds 
And laughed at the songs he sung. 



All the noise and din that the world now hears, 
Which the worlds in their rush now make, 

Is but the echo I whispered low, 

When there were no hearts to quake. 

Let the thund’rous boom of the cannons roar 
With a shock that will rend the earth— 

Tis but a chord of the songs I sung, 

A measure I knew at birth. 

Yet there is one thing, a creature new, 

It came in the wake of man; 

And ’twill ever be as it’s always been, 

A part of my first laid plan. 

He awoke to roam the western plain 
And he never fell asleep. 

He scaled the crest of the jumbled crags, 
Where his vision had room to sweep. 

He reveled, glad, in his wild free, life, 

’Til he caught the scent of man; 

And it told of a day when his lot would change, 
Of a day when toil began. 

Then he reared and plunged and tossed his 
head, 

And shook his flowing mane; 

His eyes took a glint from the lightning’s 
gleam, 

Then he reared and plunged again. 

His nostrils red dilated wide, 

With his hoofs he beat the rock, 


He gnashed his teeth and groaned so loud 
That the whole earth felt the shock. 

He cried aloud in his wildest rage, 

To the powers that ever be; 

He called to the demons Fd cast into hell, 

To the harpies under the 1 sea. 

And they came to live with him, and dwell 
In his very flesh and bone, 

And their hate for man bred a hate in him, 

A hate he has always shown. 

Then because of hate of toil and work, 

They caused that hate to grow; 

And to show the villany of their spleen 
They christened him broncho. 

And a broncho he is when ever man, 

His spirit has tried to tame; 

And a broncho he’ll be Til the end of time. 

And he’ll play the broncho’s game. 

The cinch perchance, may his body clas'p, 
And the traces chafe his side, 

But the devils, that lurk in his every hair, 
Will make your best riders ride. 

Though you make him feel your quirt and steel, 
And shackle him when you can, 

The way he came in, he’ll sure go out, 

For he’ll never be slave to man. 


©1 ]t JUfetmt ©emu* 


I’m a regular western terror 

And Fm wanting nothing fairer, 

Than a chance to let you see what I can do. 

Keep your selves clear of my leashes 
Or Fll take your dainty fleeces, 

For Fve got a lot of things to tell to you. 

Did you ever see a broncho, 

One that knows just how to wampoo, 
That can make his tail tie knots up in the air? 
Well, just bring him out, Fll show you, 

And a hundred bucks Fll go you 
I can ride him high and dry, 

And do it fair. 

Bring your demon of the prairie, 

One that’s wild and fierce and hairy; 

Turn him loose, Fll get my toggles onto him. 

And Fll coax the ugly villain 
For my blood is just a spillin’ 

To get mounted and his hair commence to trim. 

Fve no golden spurs that clatter, 

Steels are better for that matter; 

Steels with rowels locked 

And cinch hooks in the shank. 

Let him sunfish, turtle, huddle, 

Fll be with him through the muddle; 

And Fll scratch him from the shoulders to the 
flanks. 



I’m a Rocky mountain wild cat, 

And there’s lots of games I play at, 

Just to ease the itch and tingle in my skin. 

When the blizzard is a sweepin,’ 

And the low rain clouds are weepin’, 

That’s the time my music drowns the 
cyclone’s din. 

Then my war hoop o’er the prairie 

Sounds so free and light and airy; 

And the pop, pop of my pistol’s tenor chime 
Checks thd wild steer’s mad stampeding, 
Forces back the ones that’s leading, 

Turns ’em back upon the tailers every time. 

0, the squeaking of the leather, 

Of the chaps and taps together 
And the hissing through the air of my hondo; 

When my good riata’s length is 
Measured like my cinch’s strength is, 

Then we’ll show the maverick a thing or two. 

See the noose is gently rasping, 

Round his horns is firmly clasping; 
With a “whist, and braw” he tumbles to the 
ground. 

For my rope is now fast to him, 

Never tried one yet, but threw him; 

In a jiffy he is hog-tied safe and sound. 

Maybe you can do these tricks, Sir? 

Well, I think you’ll need to fix, Sir, 

E’re you try to make a go of it with me. 

I eat rattlesnakes and lizzards, 


Drink the lightning from the blizzards, 

And tarantulas on toast I have for tea. 

Now, you don’t know what my name is, 

Nor you don’t know what my game is. 

I’m at home where ever my sombrero falls. 

I’m a regular rooter tooter, 

With my forty-four six-shooter, 

And I’m always in if any body calls. 

Call and see me if you’re guessin’ 

That you want to take a lesson; 

Yet, the prices are so high it hardly pays. 

For the eastern ways have done us, 
Tender feet have come among us, 

And they’ve robbed us of the wild and 
wooly days 



Far out in the west where the sun beams rest. 
On the edge of the golden cup; 

Where the day gives way to night so blest, 
With it’s silvery dome which the stars light up* 

There lies a land, both good and grand, 

With it’s vales that stretch afar; 

With it’s tiny rills, each a silvery band. 




Keeping time and rhyme with the twinkling 
star. 

There are hills high and low, wherever you go, 
That border these valleys fair; 

Their tops aglow with the pure white snow 
That a brightness lends to the winter air. 

This land was a home, o’er it’s plains did roam 
The bison, the elk and the deer; 

Where the dusky savage sang his song 
And wooed his bride with not a thought of fear. 

But the white man came, ’tis no more the same, 
For his steel has cleared the wild; 

His lariat rope made the broncho tame, 

And his rifle has scared the savage child. 

Yes, the white man’s band encircles the land, 
And his plow now furrows the soil; 

His steed now feeds on the plains so grand, 
And his brow oft’ is wet with the sweat of toil. 

Oh, beautiful vale, sweep ever thy gale, 

O’er thy bosom so fresh and free; 

In love you now stand of all that’s hale 
The fairest of all that is fair to me. 

Your prairies are scrolled with flowers of gold, 
With roses of scarlet hue; 

Let your streams flow on so free and bold, 

And your fields oft’ be wet with the sparkling 

dew. 


J\ Nrfv 'fibm 


Since God did unto Eve of old bequeath 
An equal heritage to Eden’s realm so blessed, 

A mistress fair, whom Adam favored too, 

Full joyful that to her it did belong, 

And that she, all its beauties did possess. 

There e’er has been a power deftly swayed, 

And to gainsay it, man has never dared; 

Yet, be it truth or fiction, woman reigns, 

And he submits, with humble mien and low, 
For well he knows that in submission best he’s 
fared. 

Lee not the why or whence of it arise, 

To bring on further discord and debate; 

Man grants the rule where in the power lies, 

Nor does complain of tasks unjustly laid 
But meekly bows, submissive to his fate. 

That Eden old is long since desolate, 

No longer d: the fig and olive blow; 

Has climbed the western hills. 

And now, effulgent, rich in colors, gleam and 
glow. 

The Tigris and the Euphrates that flowed, 

And still do flow, or creep, that realm to bound, 
Can not compare with rivers of our west; 

That with their leaping cataracts and rills, 

A hundred Edens in profusion bound. 



The simple dress of springtime’s daisies meek, 
The summer with sunflowers richly dyed, 

The autumn, boastful of the golden rod, 

With all the vales and sunkissed hills do blend 
In one vast halo long, and deep and wide. 


Could Eve have known the beauties of this land, 
It would have been no wonder she digressed 
No marvel, that her vanity had waned 
And unto Satan’s temptings she did yield. 

To know the wealth in which they all were dressed. 


But, here, amid the vales and sunny slopes, 

The world has moved, progress personified 
Mid caverns that with thunderous clangs have 
rung, 

God has bequeathed to man more sumptuous 
fare, 

He need not pluck forbidden fruit to eat, 

But of a splendid plenty take his share. 


And for his mate, he gives no rib to frame 
A body that but gods can amplify, 

But choose from out the many, whom he will— 
A creature born, of flesh and blood, to live, 

Yet, sinneth not, though Satan tempt her still. 


For there, the Eve angelic, unbeguiled, 

Amid the bowers and the blooms does dwell 
Her station and her worth to man she knows— 
Her mission is to guide to heaven’s gate, 

The Eve of old unlocked the gate to Hell. 


Blest land, blest realm, that man should have 
of thee, 

A portion, knowing God had truly blessed 
And granted him dominion over all 
To give him power that he might not fall; 

But prove an honor to this Eden of the west. 


Wt\t Jxnfr of lltEirml 


I halt at last on the salt sea brim, 

I have reached the end of the trail; 

And the night grows dark 

And the salty spray 

Lashes to foam all the rocky way, 

Groans and thunders until I fear 

And cringe in fright for they are so near; 

I can't go back and I can’t go on, 

For I’ve reached the end of the trail. 

I can see far over the ocean crest, 

The lights of other lands; 

But I can not reach their sheltering lea, 
For, whenever I stretch my weary hands 
The sea mist hides them away from me, 
The wet sands bind my tired feet; 

And I know, though I’m old to find it out, 
I have reached the end of the trail. 




From the land of the rising sun I came, 

A spirit, a youth, a man; 

A halo about me, no grief I knew, 

The rainbow of joy my way did span, 
Seducing my life from toil and pain 
And led me to revel in joy again; 

In the beauties that round my pathway shone, 
But Tve reached the end of the trail. 

’Twas a better land that in youth I knew, 

’Ere I’d reached the end of the trail; 

For the sun’s first rays kissed the dew drops 
bright 

With a glint from the stars, it had stolen at 
night, 

And hid in the buttercups’ chalice of gold 
A twinkle and glitter that diamonds hold; 
Though I gathered them all, they’ve vanished 
away 

And I’m now at the end of the trail. 

The pleasures I knew in manhood are'lost, 
The summit of hills steep to climb, 

With their domes clad in ages on ages of snow, 
That comes in its whiteness and never will go; 
The torrent that leaps to a grave in the foam 
Shouts in boisterous cadence with echoes that 
roam 

They, one day, were mine and I reigned as a 
king, 

But I’ve reached the end of the trail. 

Take me back, far away from the sea mist and 
spray, 


Let me rest in the land of my God; 

Where the autumn leaves fall in the deep forest 
shade, 

To the paths which my people have trod. 

Their spirits now call to my spirit that was, 
’Tis their homes that I see through the mist; 
And the song of the sea is a requiem for me 
Though I can't go to them, I know I am free. 
And I'll rest at the end of the trail. 


Lite pliant mu QJhti'f 


List’, traveler, have you heard the tale, 

That winding from yon row of sun kissed hills 
Has swept across these prairies broad and vast,. 
Laden with a theme that ripples over all; 

And permeates to every cove and dell. 

Who’s truth like incense, pure and fragrant 
As the white syringa’s perfumed breath in June, 
Rolls on, and quivering in the golden light 
Again rolls on, and ever shall roll, 

’Til time and life, in these blest lands 
Shall be no more, and every soul, 

Those sons and daughters born to nature here, 
Be ’bodied in a song for worlds to sing? 

’Twas night, upon the lofty hill 
1 stood, 2 nd listened to the soft winds sing ; 




When lo, the echo of a voice I heard, 

And as I harked, the echo died away, 

And voices low and musical, yet sad, 

Lent words onto my waking ears. 

And then from out the night came forms, 

The living, moving forms of men, 

That were in earnest conversation bent. 

They heeded not my presence there, 

Nor turned aside their theme of argument; 

But, when at length the summit they had gained 
And viewed the broad expanse of moonlit vales; 
I knew that one was chieftain of his tribe, 
Though dark his face and sad his countenance, 
The bearing of his form erect and proud, 

The eagle plume of his head-dress, 

The rich regalia that he wore, 

All told me, had he spoke no word, 

Gave me to know the station that he bore. 

With eyes upraised toward Heaven’s gate, 
And hands out spread toward that broad 
expanse, 

He turned to his companion then, and said: 
“And who am I, that ye should stand and gaze 
On me, as on some sarcophagus old? 

Can ye attribute to my form and age, a cause 
For which your tyranny doth not the' reason 
hold? 

Proud though your mien, and ample your 
display. 

Secure your rights, by rights made manifest; 
Tradition, nature’s story, tells me of a day, 
When I, though meager my array, was grandly 
dressed. 


Your tongue profuse, with all profusion learned,. 
Cannot indict your speech with ample truth, 
Nor heal the scar, that on my race doth burn. 
To heap on woes that have been mine since 
youth. 

Ye can not know the evils we have born, 

The evils of oppression at your hands; 

Ye can not know the pain that now we bear, 
Because of robbing these, my people, of their 
lands. 

And now, adieu, I leave you to your thoughts, 

I to my people turn, with heart of grief; 

And let them pray to the Great Spirit, good, 
That He may send a message of relief.” 

Then they were gone, but still, I seem to hear, 
The sad, sweet music of the chieftain's voice; 
I felt his presence, though we were not near, 
And dared to champion his cause for choice. 
The winds sang on, and dawn shown in the east, 
I saw the smoke from out their tepees rise; 
’Twasbut to me the prayer their chieftain made, 
And offered to the spirits of the skies. 

O, would that I such prayer could offer too. 
If by it, I could aid or comfort be, 

Yet, what am I, a creature of the dust, 

Proud chieftain, I am even less than thee. 

Ay, noble chief, I still can hear you pray, 

As bending low, thy raven locks turned white. 
Thy cause, the coming ages, yet shall sway, 
And ask of the Great Spirit, is it right? 

But, now, lies’ gone, this phantom of my dream, 
His days are numbered as the midnight hour; 


The long drawn tones, the echoes, hear them say, 
Eleven, twelve, and then, they’re passed away. 





In the land of the Nez Perces, 

By the stream we call Koos Koosky, 

There now dwells a race of farmers, 

Long acknowledged peaceful people; 

And they love to hear it spoken, 

That they are a peaceful people. 

They have homes built up as white men, 
And they farm the fertile valleys 
As the white man tills his acres. 

In the spring the men are plowing, 

And in harvest time they’re reaping 
Always busy with their labors. 

When you’re passing by their homes you’ll 
Note the signs of their industry 
There the marks of frugal living 
May be seen, yet signs of plenty 
To supply their humble wishes. 

There the women tend to gardens, 

Milk their cows and raise their poultry, 
Clean their house, do their washing 




Or sit sewing by the windows, 

For they’ve seen their palefaced sisters 
Labor and they’ve learned a lesson. 

Learned a lesson that has helped them, 
That has helped to change their nature. 
For they’re now a different people. 

Many stories, strange traditions, 

Have come to us from their fathers, 
Telling how they came to live here 

On the banks of the Koos Koosky, 

’Though there’s none can be quite certain. 
Of their origin and coming; 

Yet there’s one tale that is going— 
Something like to it I’ll tell you. 

Listen, while I tell the story. 

Many years ago, the fathers 
Say, a tribe of foreign people, 

Came from out the skies, and lighted 
Tn the edge of the great forest; 

Smote the waves of the great waters 
With their wings, until it’s murmurs 

Changed into a mighty roaring. 

And the noise brought consternation 
To the red men, set them quaking; 

Caused them all to fear and tremble, 

Lest these strangers should be evil 
Spirits that had come to harm them. 

But they waited through the winter, 

And throgh days of balmy spring time, 


Through the summer and the autumn; 
All this time their fears were growing, 
For the creatures with the white wings, 
Sped away across the waters; 

Yet they left behind great numbers 
Of peculiar looking people. 

People who walked as the red men, 

But whose faces were much paler; 

And who went about the forest, 

Gutting trees and making wigwams. 

Making many woeful noises, 

Til again the snows of winter 
Came to the land of the redmen, 

And the chiefs and old men whispered, 
“Better ’tis that we should leave here— 
Better leave this land of sorrow, 

For no more we find the red deer, 

Nor the beaver nor the otter; 

All our fields of corn have blighted, 

And our children all are crying 
For we have no food to give them; 

Let us journey toward the westland 

And perhaps, then, The Great Spirit 
Will again come and be near us.” 

So they packed in bales and bundles, 
All their robes and mats and clothing, 

All their snares and bows and arrows; 
And in deep, sore lamentations 
Started toward the land of sunset. 


Oh, the hardships of that journey, 

How the wives and children suffered— 
And the young men and the maidens 
And the warriors aged and weakened. 
For it seemed, the evil spirit 
Had come on them to oppress them. 

And they ever looked to eastward 
With a fear of those strange people, 
Saying, “They have brought it on us; 
They have brought a curse upon us.” 

And they journey, journeyed westward, 
Through the forest, o'er the prairie; 

Crossed the little streams and rivers, 
Passed beyond where any people 
E'er had camped or fished or hunted. 
But a darkness now came o’er them, 
Hovered o'er them as a mantle; 

Menaced them with dismal shadows, 
Showed to them those taunting faces. 
And they fled still farther, faster, 
Toward the westland, toward the sunset. 

Fled until the great, high mountains 
Stood as barriers in their pathway. 

Then their hearts grew weaker, fainter, 
And in utter desperation. 

They ran crying, screaming, shrieking 
Up the steep side of the mountain; 

Came unto it's very summit, 

When, behold, far out below them, 

On the farther side, a valley 




Spread in rays of light resplendent, 

And they ceased their cries and wailing, 
Spake each to console the other; 

Saying, “Let us hasten to it, 

There is food and rest and quiet. 

See, the antelope and red deer, 

Each at peace is with thq other; 

And the waters of the rivers 
Are with fish filled to o’er flowing. 

Let us journey on ’til night fall, 

Then w T e’ll rest and feast our bodies. 

But, alas, how brief their feasting, 

How in sadness it was ended— 

For from out the sky the shadows, 

Had grown longer, spread more darkness 
Over all the land about them. 

And a fierce and mighty monster 
Came upon them from the darkness, 

Came with gnashing teeth and groanings; 
From its nostrils came a breathing 
Wild and fierce as tempest roar. 

Came the mutterings and rumblings 
Of that fetted, stenchy breathing; 

Of that breath that smote them senseless, 
Scattered them about as ashes; 

Hurled their forms into the river, 

And the waters bore their bodies 
Far away toward the great ocean, 

Cast them lifeless, on an island; 

Left them there as food for vultures. 


Left their bones to bleach and whiten 
Neath the hot sun of the summer, 
Neath the moon’s pale light of evening. 
Til a power should avenge them. 

Til their spirits, weak and wasted, 

By their fasting and privations, 
Reached the land of the Great Spirit. 

There they told their woeful story, 

Told of all their griefs and sorrows, 

Of their wanderings and hardships; 
Asked if ’twas a curse upon them, 

Or a punishment for labor. 

And He answered, “No, my children, 
Twas no curse, thy lives were pure; 

But my enemy had smote me, 

He, the evil spirit, smote me 
With his huge fins, into blindness, 

And T could not see my people, 

Could not know of all their sorrows. 

But today, my si<?ht returned me. 

And I saw the pain and anguish. 

Saw the wrongs that you had suffered; 
And I sent my fleetest spirits— 

The coyotes that dwelt about vou. 

Sang to you at night, and called you, 
Wa-Wa-Tvee. which when spoken, 

Says you’ll be a race of chieftains. 

So it shall be, for the coyote 
Fell upon that monster demon, 

Slew him, tore him into pieces; 


Dragged his heart from out his body, 
Spilled his blood upon the grasses; 

On the ashes of your fires 
Where you sat beside the river 
Feasting, when he came upon you. 

And those blood drops on the ashes, 

Shall spring up into a people, 

And the drops upon the grasses 
Shall in summer bloom and blossom, 
Bloom to cheer them with my promise, 

That no more they shall be outcasts; 

But shall own those lands forever. 

They, those creatures with the big wings, 
Were your friends, they’d come to help you. 
But by him, that evil spirit, 

Who had cast his spell upon you. 

You were blinded to their purpose; 

Could not know their real intentions, 

But some day, again you’ll meet them, 

Know them as you know your brothers, 
And they’ll dwell among you, help you, 
Make you be more happy people; 

Then the flowers on the hillside 
Will be to you all a token 
Of my pleasure and my blessing. 

But those bodies that were taken 
From you and cast on the island, 

Shall forever mark the gateway 
To the land of the Great Spirit. 

There in autumn, ’neath the full moon, 


When the harvests have been gathered, 

You may all as friends assemble, 

Join the spirits in their dancing, 

Dance with them whom death hath summoned; 
Feast, and rest, and joy be with you, 

Tis my blessing to my people.” 


pig mrg (Homing into ®oton 


We’ve been joggin’ Jong since daylight, 
Broke our camp, a hungry lot, 

Fed and harnessed up our horses, 

Licked out fryin’ pan and pot. 

Left the fire’s drowsy embers, 

Heaps of red coals turnin’ brown; 

But the phone poles by the road side, 
Say we’re cornin’ into town. 


We have jogged along since mornin’, 
With no thought of turnin’ back; 

We have passed sheep herders’ cabins 
And the squatter’s homestead shack. 
We have come into the turnpike, 
Where the sign boards, all look down 
With a sort of friendly greetin’, 

For we’re cornin’ into town. 

We have jogged along since mornin’, 






And the team’s a gettin’ slow; 

But the cans along the road side 
Say, “You’ll make it soon you know,” 
And the slaughter pens awaitin’, 

With their odors to fling down 
* On a feller from the country, 

When he’s cornin’ into town. 

We have jogged along since mornin’, 
And it’s gettin’ nigh to noon; 

But a pile of barrels and boxes, 

Say, “You’ll be there pretty soon, 

Can’t you see the graveyard yonder, 
And the smoke a whirlin’ round, 

Can’t you read the sign boards, feller, 
When you’re coming’ into town ?” 

Yes, we’re green horns from the country 
And no doubt they’ll have a laugh, 
Maybe they’ll be like Pat Murphy, 

When he tried to choke the calf; 

But they’ll find their stenchy alleys, 
And they’ll go a scootin’ iroun’ 

Into hidin’ holes and boxes, 

When we get clear into town. 


4 & 


0Mf for tire ilfomtiawo 


We are off for the mountains, the wagons are 
loaded, 

The horses are curried and harnessed and fed, 
he box of provisions is packed to o’er flowin, 

The axe and the saw are lashed on with the bed. 

Then whoop along, boys, we are off for the 
mountains; 

Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 

We are off for the mountains, the day light is 
breaking, 

Bright, golden rays light the fair eastern sky; 

Old Sol in his chariot of fire is taking 

His course toward the zenith as hours pass by. 

Then hoop along boys, we are off for the 
mountains; 

Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 


We are off for the mountains, we’ll make our 
first camping, 

At noon in the Benjamin Gulch, by the spring; 
Then after the rest we’ll jog along lively, 

The horses’ hoof beats keeping time as we sing. 
Hoop along, boys we are off good and early, 
Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 

We are off for the mountains, to cut the tall 
saplings, 

To build a corral and to frame a new shed; 




Ah, then, we can stack in our hay for the 
winter, 

And horses and cattle be sheltered and fed. 
Then hoop along, boys, we are off for the 
mountains, 

Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 

We are off for the mountains, to get wood for 
winter, 

Dry tamarack poles, red fir and black pine; 
We’ll cut and snake out and load onto our 
wagons 

Any sound timber that comes in our line. 
Then hoop along, boys, we are off for the 
mountains, 

Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 

We are off for the mountains, for days growing 
chilly, 

Bespeak of the cold nights that yet are to come; 
Then ’round the bright fireside, cheerful and 

merry, 

We’ll spend the glad hours with loved ones at 
home, 

Then, hoop along, boys, get home from the 
mountains, 

Hoop along, hoop along, hoop, hoop along. 




It was out of old Las Vegas, 

In the summer eighty-five, 

On a Fourth of July celebration day; 

That we took a double header, 

Loaded down with passengers— 

And I’ll bet, you never saw a crowd so gay. 

There were women, men and children, 

Lots of fellers and their gals; 

Flaunting flags and snapping firecrackers too, 
Telling stories and a-singing, 

And passing jokes around 

With each other and the members of the crew. 

Five miles out, we tipped the summit, 

Hadn't been a goin’ fast,— 

Just about a makin’ regular schedule time; 

When the wheels began a hummin' 

Faster than they had before 

And we heard a sort of squeeky, wheezy 
rhyme. 

Old Bob Slack, he had the header, 

And he was a leader, too— 

Knew his engine and the road just like a book; 

Knew each mile post, bridge and culvert, 
Knew each crossin’ on the line; 

And could tell you ever swerve and curve 
and crook. 




That there track from Old Las Vegas 
Is as crooked as a snake— 

Goes ahead and back and sideways, all in one; 

And the very imps of Satan 
Must have been out on a spree, 

That there celebration day to have some fun. 

When the con first heard the hummin,’ 

He knew something wrong was up, 

And he pulled the cord to warn the engineers; 

Told his brakey, in a whisper, 

Quick to close and lock the doors, 

And tried his very best to hide his fears. 

But the screechin’ and the hummin’ 

Grew into a weird scream, 

And the coaches knocked together with a jam; 

All the while they pitched like bronchos, 

In a round-up buckin' match, 

And the windows popped together with a 
slam. 

“Keep your seats," the brakey shouted, 

“Don’t you move, or you’ll be killed—’’ 
Everybody tried to do just what he said; 

But we reeled and rocked and tumbled, 
Lurched and rolled from side to side, 

Worse than sleepin’ in an ocean steamer’s bed. 

Did I speak of buckin’ bronchos, 

Or of ocean steamers’ beds, 

Or of thunder storms, or zig-zag lightning flame? 

Why, them things, sir, ain’t a patchin’ 
Couldn’t hold a candle stick— 


Any way you’re mind to count, they’re easy, 
tame. 

Talk of mountain lions screamin’, 

Of the coyote’s serenade, 

Or the bobcat’s yowlin’ when he holds his breath— 
Lor, they ain’t a circumstance, sir, 

To the screechin’ of that crowd; 

’Twould have scared a wild Commanchee 
plum to death. 

But Old Bob, he wasn’t frightened, 

He was cool’s a block of ice 
When’s bilin’ in a pot upon the fire; 

He just watched the sage brush dartin’ 

Past him as he sped along, 

And the more he mopped, the more he did 
perspire. 

But he signaled to the agent 
At a station as we passed, 

He should telegraph of his stampede ahead; 

So wherf he reached the valley, 

And could slow her down a bit 

He side-tracked her right along the coalin’ shed. 

And when' the doors were opened, 

And the passengers got out, 

They saw Old Bob a lyin’ on the sand; 

The sweat was just a-pouring’ 

Off his bald pate in a stream, 

But he was the happiest feller in the land. 


(©be to the hkaimum 


Creek cf the Deadman, come, listen to me, 
And I shall sing a sweet song to thee; 

List’ as in summer, when lowly thy tide, 

Sinks to the little pools safely to bide. 

Born of a high land vale, 

Soft and sweet be the tale, 

Born on the evening gale, 

Deadman, to thee. 

Tis not of harvest fields, nor bleak and bare, 
Nor of the upland, by summer made fair; 

Nor of the ones, who long, long ago, 

Gave thee thy name by their death in the snow. 
Died in the biting gale, 

Fell ’neath the sleet and hail, 

Left none to tell the tale, 

Deadman, to thee. 

’Though but few shade trees now grow on thy 
brink, 

Where years ago the sly deer stooped to drink; 
Yet in the winter time, cattle now feed, 

Find on thy verdant hills all that they need. 
Thence does the mallard drake, 

With his companions, take 
Flight from the northern brake, 

Deadman, to thee. 

Long years ago, when the spring time had clad 



Thee in bright beauty, and made thee be glad; 
Came there a damsel, with eyes soft and bright, 
Her long silken locks as dark as the night. 
Timed to her bosoms swell, 

Strains of sweet music fell, 

Of her true love she’d tell, 

Deadman, to thee. 

True to her love, was this fair, dusky maid, 
He, a bold warrior, had gone to the aid 
Of his loved country men, who w^ere sorely 
pressed 

By the white pioneers who’d come to the west. 
Bright was his battle blade, 

Nor was his courage stayed, 

’Till he a tribute paid, 

Deadman, to thee. 

Oft had they strolled by thy green at night, 
Plighted their vows ’neath the pale evening 
light; 

Caressed each other as true lovers may, 

But e’er the dawn he’d again hie away. 

Then she would sing his praise, 

On thy clear waters gaze, 

Tuned were her sweetest lays, 

Deadman, to thee. 

Then, to the conflict, again he would go, 
Fight for his country against the white foe; 
Never forgetting his fond dusky bride, 

Who in her loveliness dwelt by thy side. 

Fought with his fiercest ire, 

Fed by a flaming fire, 


Fought for his heart's desire, 

Deadman, for thee. 

There came a day when he ne'er more returned, 
Though for his coming she waited and yearned, 
Longed for her chieftain again to embrace, 
Pined for another look into his face. 

Ever she looked in vain, for her chief had been 
slain. 

Fell on the battle plain, 

Deadman, for thee. 

Many glad summers have shown bright and 
gay, 

Since from heri tepee he last rode away. 
Long have the flowers on her grave budded, 
bloomed, 

Telling the tale of her love there entombed. 
Telling how true was she, 

True as pure love could be, 

True to her love and thee, 

Deadman, to thee. 

Flow on in pride of thy knowing the theme, 
Nor let her sorrows disturb thy glad dream, 
Flow, gently flow, 'neath the stars, moon 
and sun; 

Until thee and the great Shoshone are one. 

Be to the Shoshone true, 

Pure as the love she knew, 

None ever loved more true, 

Deadman, than she. 


©lie Jtggms 


We went up to the placer diggins, 
With a hearty, “Hello, there, boys— 
And a hearty laugh at a fellow, 

Who seemed to make lots of noise 
With an old cob pipe he was smoking; 
Although it was half full of spit, 

He went ahead with his joking, 

And seemed to have plenty of grit. 

Frun was washing some gold out 
In an old, rusty iron pan; 

But looked up when he heard us, 

With a grin, “See gold if you can, 
For I’ll take it back to the sluice cave 
And put it up my sleeve, 

And not a man goes in there, 

Unless I give him leave.” 

Now, Frun, he didn’t just say that, 
But it might as well ’been said, 

For he looked all fired beaten, 

And his face got awful red. 

Frun was a city lawyer, 

He’d furnished a good grub stake 
To Charley Beck of his city, 

For half the claims he’d stake. 

Perchance, Beck found good prospects, 
And brought some nuggets to town; 



Which set Frun wild in a jiffy, 

And started him buzzing ’round. 

So he got a team and driver, 

And started out, to go, 

With a few of his choice companions, 
To this treasured Eldorado. 

He left the team at Warren’s 
And took the trail on foot, 

Crossing wild streams and chasms, 

To the heart of the Bitter Root. 

In thirteen hours he made it, 

The whole long sixty miles, 

Fed on his vim a plenty, 

And excited all the while. 

He finally reached the diggins, 

That fabled, treasure place; 

But weak he was and sore he looked 
After his heavy race. 

And so, he didn’t want to 
Let any feller know 
Whether he’d found a color, 

Nor give him any show. 

So after our salutation, 

And, “How’s the prospects, men?” 
When he’d forbidden us fellows 
Taking apeep within, 

Cameron went back for his pistol, 
He’d left it by a tree; 

When he came back,— 

—Frun just looked up, with 
“You may go in now, and see.” 


But we didn’t go in, we left him, 

For he had been there first, 

And went to our camp and then went home. 
Not feeling much the worst. 

Frun did not find a color, 

And they say he dropped and died; 

To know he had been hoodoo’d. 

To know that Beck had lied. 



Oh, the happy days of childhood that are gone. 
In the mistic vale of yesterday roll on, 

Oh, the spring time and the joy, 

Of my life, when but a boy 

All the happy days of childhood blend in one. 

Pleasant were those days of childhood that 
are gone, 

In the brightness of sweet memory roll on; 
As in childish glee we played. 

’Neath the tall hackberry shade, 

When the errands of the summer days were 
done. 

Oft’ I now recall those happy days of yore. 
That have rolled away so far and come no 
more; 




They have fled far, far away, 

And no more I romp and play, 

With my brothers and my sisters round the 
door. 

Happy were we, brothers, sisters, long ago, 
In the winter, when the ground was white with 
snow, 

Then upon the glassy ice, 

Glide away, so smooth and nice, 

Or go coasting on the hill side, to and fro. 

School days too, there were, in childhood that’s 
gone by, 

In the morning to the school house we would 
hie, 

There our playmates all to meet, 

And the teacher’s smile to greet, 

While he urged us all our youthful minds 
to ply. 

Where are they, those loved ones that I used 
to know, 

Brothers, sisters that I played with long ago? 
Alice with her rosy face, 

Gave her blushes for the grace, 

Of a mother, and a mother’s love must show. 

Yet, another of those loved ones that I knew, 
She from infancy to childhood scarcely grew, 
’Til her little spirit fled and we laid her in 
her bed 

And her dark, bright eyes were hidden from 
our view. 


And those little brothers now to men are 
grown, 

Each one now his path of life must tread alone. 
Each a 1 burden has to bear, 

Each in toil must take a share, 

Leaving far behind the childhood sun Ithat 
shone. 



I should like to rise and go 
Where the land is clad with snow, 
Where the furry Esquimaux 
With his dogs dash to and fro. 

There is no knotty crocodile 
Lies basking in the Nile; 

But the White or Polar bear, 

Clad in coat of shaggy hair, 

O’er the ice fields softly creep 
Searching for a seal asleep, 

And the Silver Arctic fox 

Hunts for rabbits ’mongst the rocks. 

There is neither flower nor tree 
Singing bird nor honey bee; 

But the cold and piercing blast 




Stings you as it goes past. 

You no parrot there will see 
Nor an ape upon a tree, 

Never find a cocoanut 
Nor a negro hunter’s hut; 

But the huts that you will find 
Are built up the strongest kind, 
Walls of rock o’er laid with snow 
With a small opening below. 

There, instead of palanquin, 

With a feller swingin’ in, 

Bog teams with toboggans go 
Bobbin’, bobbin’, o’er the snow. 

Oil and blubber in the pot, 

Boil and keep the rooms all hot; 
While some blood and other juice, 
Is boilin' for the table use. 

There I’ll go when I get old, 

And am worth my weight in gold. 
Take the Franklin party route 
And see the things Ive read about. 

Take a sack of nuts and toys 
For the Arctic girls and boys. 
Knives and guns I’ll take to some 
They’ll be mighty glad I’ve come. 

And I’ll see the northern lights, 
Aurora Borealis bright, 


And such other sights and deeds, 
Of which a boy so often reads. 


spring 


A bicycle or a tricycle, or any kind of a vehicle, 
That runs on wheels, and winds and reels, 

In and out as it goes about, 

Is dangerous to ride upon. 

Just now, the spring of the year, 

The birds, so dear, are drawing near; 

And we think it is quite clear, 

That bicycles will soon appear. 

Now, we who see such things to be 

Take the liberty of telling you what’s best to do. 

For those implements that bound 

Along the ground without a sound, 

Can anywhere be found, the country round, 
With boy or girl or lady crowned. 

That’s a curious way to locomote, 

No horse nor engine, nor a boat on which to 
float, 

Nor sled to drag, but so zigzag, 

And from side to side, whenever you ride, 
Like you’re trying to find some place to hide. 




A horse is known to keep the road, 

Whether he's aloafin’ or has a load, 

And feels clear to his heels, each grain of oat 
That chances to float down his throat 
His neck he bows and on he goes, 

For well he knows there'll be no woes, 

To those who repose in his care and treat him 
fair. 

There was never a boat, known to float, 

On lake or river or even a moat, 

That sought to kiver out side the river 
A mast or spar, or even a tar, 

That chanced to mar it's beauty 
Or unfit it for duty 

But in it’s wake on river or brake, or on a lake, 
Let all refuse to the water take. 

But now, some how, I’ll allow to quit, 

But don't you forget, there's danger in it, 
Whenever you sit astride, and try to ride, 

And paddle and guide, from side to side, 
You’ll get enough of your bicycle ride. 


j\ jifnmget in the (Lrfim 


I walked for a little while tonight 
Through the streets of a little town. 




The lights shone bright from the windows. 

For darkness had settled down; 

And all was changed in appearance, 

And on me seemed to frown 
As I walked along the quiet street, 

I was a stranger in the town. 

The walks seemed old and decaying, 

Some were half tumbled down; 

T had oft run o’er them playing, 

When a school boy in the town. 

For in those days, those school days, 

My life from care was free; 

But tonight my life neath it’s burden sways, 
And the town is strange to me. 

The old school house upon the hill, 

With it’s wall so high and brown, 

Recalled the time when it’s bell’s sweet chime 
Aroused the youths of the town, 

And bade them haste to their books again, 

And the master’s warning frown, 

But to me ’tis all passed, and tonight, I walk 
As a stranger in the town. 


The river still flows with it’s chattering noise, 
T can hear the old mill hum, 

The church with it’s spire still pointing above 
Is welcoming all who’ll come. 

The livery barn and the railroad track 
Are the same as in days of yore, 

But the light of the place sees a stranger’s face; 
The town is mine no more. 


Sweethearts and faces that then were gay, 
Have traveled toward age’s shore; 

And the golden locks have turned to gray, 
To shine in their gold no more. 

Yes, the same old town that I used to know, 
But I am changed a sight, 

I but walk in the paths that others go, 

I’m a stranger here tonight. 



I live out in the country, upon a great big farm. 

They say there’s lots and lots of things to do 
a feller harm, 

And I believe it, for you know, I saw an awful 
sight, 

When I ran off one evening, and stayed ’till 
after night. 

I wanted to go swimmin’ down in a little crick, 

But ma, she said it was so cold, she was ’fraid 
’twould make me sick 

So I got mad, and pouted, and ran away and 


hid, 


And ma, she just looked all around, and said, 
“I wonder where’s that kid?” 

Then when she went back in the house, and 
everything was still, 

I scooted round behind the barn, and ran off 




down the hill. 

There I saw Bob, the hired man, a diggin’ out 
some rock; 

I stayed and talked to him, until I guess ’twas 
four 

Because, the sun was just that high—’twas 
gettin’ pretty low, 

And so I said to Bob, “I guess it’s time for me 
to go.” 

’N then I thought that I’d go down and see 
Fred Smith awhile; 

He lived around the bend a piece, I guess about 
a mile. 

Fred told me once he had a dog as big as ma’s 
red cow— 

He said, “You bet, you’d be afraid to hear him 
say, bow-wow;” 

But then, Fred, he was mad at me, ’n talkin’ 
just to blow, 

I didn’t care for his big dog, for I was bound 
to go. 

I thought I’d see the peacocks with eyes all in 
their tails, 

Fred’s guinea pigs and China kite, and little 
boat that sails. 

But when I got down to that gate, there lay that 
dog inside, 

He just looked up at me and growled, his 
mouth, it looked that wide. 

I didn’t care for him a bit, I didn’t feel afraid, 


But then, I thought I'd not go in, so I stayed 
out 

I built a great big pile of sand up on each side 
of the gate, 

And made a wall around them, then I sat down 
to wait. 

N’ then, I thought I didn’t care to go back 
home 

Until it got so awful dark, and little drops of 
rain, 

Began to fall and spat around on every side 
of me, 

’N then I thought, “If I were home, how glad 
they all would be.” 

'N then, a great big something, came walkin' 
down the lane, 

It’s eyes, they looked like two street lamps 
a shinin' in the rain, 

Oh, how it splashed, and slopped the mud, and 
what a noise it made! 

It looked so mighty fierce and cross it made 
me most afraid. 

I stood close up against a post and cried, 
‘Hi, there, go away, 

Shoo, scat, you ugly beast,' ’n then I tried 
to pray; 

But some how every word would fall, 

Right back into my throat again, I couldn't 
pray at all. 

It kept on cornin' just the same, it didn't stop, 
abit, 


’N when I saw I had to fight, I shook my fist * 
at it. 

’N then, oh somehow, I can’t tell just what 
it did with me; 

The rain, it got so in my eyes I couldn’t hardly 
see. 

’N then the next thing that I knew, 

Somebody whispered, “Ned, come, come, get up/’ 

I rubbed my eyes, ’N looked around, ’twas Fred. 


Hatis of tire ^tmteer 


T am looking back to the good old days, 

To the days of the pioneer; 

When the prairie schooner and four ox team, 
Did the work of autos, gas and steam, 

Though the road was narrow and steep and rough. 
There was food a plenty and good enough; 
In the days of the pioneer. 

I am looking back to the good old days, 

When the trappers had full sway; 

When the grizzley’s hide and the beaver’s pelt 
Were legal tender in deals then dealt; 

When the wooden latch on the cabin door 
Was never down and none were poor, 

In the days of the pioneer. 




I am looking back to the good old days, 

To the days of the miner’s pan; 

When the pick and shovel and old sluice box, 
And the rocker to rock the gold from the 
rocks; 

When the winter’s snow filled the miner’s cup 
Of joy with a promise of good clean up; 

In the days of the pioneer. 


i am looking back to the good old days, 

To the riders of the range; 

When the rawhide rope* tamed the long horned 
steer, 

And the outlaw horse had a boss to fear; 
When they did their work with keen delight, 

And pillowed their heads on their saddles at 
night; 

In the days of the pioneer. 

I am looking back to the good old days, 

To the old stage coach and six; 

When the miner’s gold was safe in the box, 

With the U. S. mail, ’neath haspand locks; 
When the passengers chatted and laughed in fun, 
Their only fear was the bandit’s gun; 

In the days of the pioneer. 

I am looking back to the good old days, 

When the old was turning new; 

When the range gave way to fields of wheat, 

To the gardens and orchards and city streets 
To the hum of life in the busy mart; 

Where schools and churches have a part, 
Since the days of the pioneer. 




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